Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

“Screw John. He dumped us. If he’d stayed with us we’d all be rich today.”

“You really believe that?”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know anymore. Maybe we didn’t have what it takes — you know, the way John does.”

“You know that’s a crock, man.” I’d had that same thought myself, of course. But I wasn’t about to admit it. “And he sure didn’t worry about you when he walked off with Kelly.”

He shook his head. “But she’s got to be crazy. Her kid — the whole life they’ve got — the money and all that. What the hell would we have to say to each other?”

“Well, there’s one way to find out.”

“I don’t know. It just wouldn’t be right.”

“He didn’t care about you or your habit. Not the way he left and all.”

He held up a halting hand. “I’m here because I’m an addict. And you’re selling guitars because the little group you put together last year didn’t work out. He isn’t responsible for either of those things.”

“No, but remember how he wouldn’t meet with us? Had that new agent of his handle everything? I just want to see him face to face.”

A knock on one of the parlor doors. The old-fashioned kind that rolled back into the frame. Natalie parted the doors with a deft foot and came in carrying coffee. “I had to make a fresh pot. That’s what took me so long.”

“She makes great coffee,” Pete said.

“Flatterer.” She used her foot again, this time to drag the coffee table closer to us. She set the cups on the deeply scratched wood and said, “There you go. If you want more, just let me know.”

My cup had a piece missing on the lip. I wasn’t worried about finding it in my coffee. The chip had been missing for a long time and Natalie had no doubt washed the cup dozens of times. But it made me feel like hell for Pete. For both of us, actually, I suppose. Those old days in Catholic school, high school especially. Not the best or the brightest but we did all right with the girls and the future gleamed like a new sunrise just down the road ahead of us. So much hope and so much promise. And now here we were in this busted, sad place drinking out of chipped cups.

“So I’m supposed to tell her what when you don’t show up?”

“You’re going anyway?”

“Hell, yes, Pete. This’ll be a big deal for me. And there’ll be record people there. Maybe I can make a contact.”

His smile was fond. He was smiling at the same memory I’d had a minute ago. The three of us in high school and all those rock-and-roll dreams. “You never give up, do you?”

“Not dreaming, I don’t. Maybe I’ll be at Guitar City the rest of my life but that doesn’t mean I have to stop thinking about it.”

He laid his head back and closed his eyes. “She’ll look so beautiful that I won’t be able to control myself. I’ll probably grab her. She’s all I think about. Four years later and it still hurts as much as it did the day she told me she was leaving with John.”

“But she’s still in love with you.”

He didn’t say anything for a time. I sipped my coffee. A deep sigh. He said, “I’ll go, but I’ll probably regret it.”

Even in good suits, white shirts, and conservative ties, the two steroid monsters at the front door of the very upscale Regency Hall were clearly bouncers. God help you if your name wasn’t on the list. The usual doormen had obviously been replaced by folks more accustomed to the world of rock and roll. And rap.

If either of the killer androids knew who we were they didn’t indicate it in any way. They simply consulted their BlackBerry list and waved us on through after we handed over the invitations.

The hall was the preserve of visiting artists, classical musicians, noted scholars. The lobby held a discreet Coming Attractions board. Chamber music was the next attraction. Few of the people in the lobby looked as if they’d be here for that particular event. The trendy hairstyles (female and male), the chic clothes (female and male) and the number of visible tattoos (mostly male) spoke of different musical pleasures. Dreadlocks, male rouge, cocaine eyes. Not your typical chamber-music crowd at all.

Pete stood tight against me. He was the child afraid to leave his parent. I could almost feel him wanting to do a little shapeshifting.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he said.

And with that the joyous evening began.

John took the stage to a standing O and then went immediately into generic humility. He thanked more people than ten Oscar winners. Nary a mention of Pete or me. No surprise there. He was saving the moment for Kelly. And it was quite a moment. Four years and a kid later she was still the pale Irish redhead of almost mythic beauty. The emerald cocktail dress only enhanced her slender but comely shape.

John, my generation’s Neil Diamond, in theatrical black shirt and tight black jeans, gave her the kiss everybody wanted to give her. I saw Pete look away.

“This is the reason I’m up here. I was going nowhere in terms of my career until my true love, Kelly, agreed to marry me. And that gave me the strength to break away and go on my own. I really mean it when I say I wouldn’t be on this stage tonight without this woman.”